by Thomas Kies
I looked up Nathaniel Rubin. Like me, he’d worked at a number of top media outlets—New York Times, Washington Post, Philadelphia Inquirer. Then, five years ago, he created Lodestar.
I sat back in my chair, intrigued.
The timing of Mr. Rubin’s call could not have been better.
Chapter Five
I got up early and made us scrambled eggs and bacon. Well, it was that precooked bacon that you stick in the microwave. I’m sure it’s mostly preservatives, but it smells and tastes a lot like the real deal, even though it has the texture of cardboard.
On a regular school day, Caroline would fix herself a bowl of cereal and I’d eat a couple of slices of whole wheat toast and a banana. But she was starting her Christmas vacation.
I’m not going to see her again until after first of the year.
Aunt Ruth would be picking up Caroline and her best friend, Jessica, at about 8:30 and driving to LaGuardia, then they’d fly out to Colorado.
Running the spatula through the hot eggs in the pan, I almost started crying.
I’m going to miss her so much.
This was the first time we’d been apart since Kevin had died. I’d never wanted children. I could barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. But parenting Caroline was a game changer. It was sometimes aggravating, often frightening, occasionally sad, but mostly the best thing that had ever happened to me.
As we dug into breakfast at the kitchen table, I did my best to keep my side of the conversation positive and bright. I didn’t have to work too hard, though. Caroline chattered nonstop about how much she was looking forward to getting away and hitting the slopes.
When we’d finished eating, I went into the living room and came back with a wrapped present the size of a jewelry box. I handed it to her. “Now, you can’t open that until Christmas.”
She smiled. “Okay, wait right here.”
I heard her as she trotted through the living room and pounded up the steps to her bedroom. Minutes later, she was rushing back into the kitchen with a gift of her own. Wrapped in bright red-and-green paper, it was about the size of a book. She smiled and handed it to me. “Here, but you have to wait until Christmas too.”
I took the gift and hugged her tight. “Call me as often as you can, okay?”
In my arms, Caroline looked up at me and gave me a crooked grin. “We can FaceTime, Genie, whenever you want. I’ll always have my phone with me.”
“Watch out for those ski bum rich boys.”
Still holding her, I felt her chuckle. “We got rich boys right here in Fairfield County. I’m not impressed. Hey, are you going to decorate at all?”
I glanced back into the living room. Last year, our first Christmas after her father had died, I did my best to make the holiday festive. I bought a real tree, hung ornaments and tinsel, and put lights up around the windows. I loved the smell of fresh pine, and the decorations actually made me feel a little like a kid again.
This year, with Caroline jetting off to Aspen, my heart wasn’t in it. The living room was dark.
I lied, “I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. I will.”
Still hugging me, she said, “I love you.”
“Love you back, baby.”
* * *
Sliding into my cold Sebring, I could feel the burn of my tears as they trailed down my cheeks.
I’m going to miss her so damned much.
I wiped them away with a wad of tissue I found in my bag, turned on the engine, and cranked up the heater. I took a couple of deep breaths, and when I was confident that my voice wouldn’t crack, I called Ben Sumner.
“Genie?”
“Hey, Ben. Look, I’m going to be a few minutes late. I’m going to stop by SPD to pick up last night’s incident reports and see if there’s anything new on the Groward Bay homicides.”
“Just a heads-up, Genie, the new managing editor is in your old office.”
I exhaled a heavy sigh. “And so it begins, Ben.”
“It’s all going to be okay. By the way, I liked the reference to Graveyard Bay in the piece you wrote. I kept it in the story. The new editor actually worked it into the headline. Not sure I would have done that.”
I frowned. I’d written the headline before I’d left the office. That’s what editors do. And the words “Graveyard Bay” weren’t in it.
That bitch must have come in last night after I’d left and changed it.
I shook my head and exhaled. “Is it at the top of the front page?”
“Six columns, Genie.”
“Okay, do me a favor and let the new managing editor know I’m stopping off at SPD for the reports. I’ll be in the office as soon as I can.” I let sarcasm drip from my lips when I pronounced the words new managing editor.
* * *
The heater in my car was percolating nicely as I pulled into the SPD parking lot. Getting out and into the bitter cold, I pulled my scarf over my face, hoisted my oversized bag onto my shoulder and, thankful for the tread on my boots, trudged across the ice-slick asphalt and into the nondescript two-story brick building. I was mildly surprised to note that the sparse lobby wasn’t much warmer than the outside.
I approached the sliding glass window and pressed a button.
Cathy Sloan was dressed much like I was: wool hat, scarf, parka. Recognizing me, she slid open the window. “Hey, Genie. Here to see Mike?”
“If he’s available. If he’s not, I’ll just grab the reports and scoot.”
“I’ll give him a call.”
I rubbed my gloved hands together. “What’s with the heat?”
“Old building. The heating unit just can’t keep up with this cold snap. City says they got their guys coming over to see what’s wrong.” I watched her as she picked up her phone and punched in a two-digit number. Then she nodded. “I’ll buzz you in. He’s in his office.”
It was slightly warmer in Mike’s office, thanks to a small space heater humming away on the floor next to his chair. He was wearing a navy-blue cardigan that Caroline would have called an “old man” sweater. When he saw me walk through the door, he smiled and stood up, gesturing to one of his plastic office chairs.
In the old days, he would have come around his desk and given me a hug.
I kept my coat on as I sat down. “You guys too cheap to pay the heating bill?”
He rolled his eyes and sat back down, partially hidden by his open laptop. “Half my staff will be off work with head colds and the flu before this is over.”
“Anything new on the Groward Marina homicides?”
Mike grinned. “You mean the Graveyard Bay homicides?” He picked up a copy of the paper from his desktop and held it aloft for me to see.
I read aloud the headline that screamed at me. “Two bodies found in ‘Graveyard Bay’.” I felt my face redden and cocked my head to the side. “We have a new editor.”
Mike glanced at the headline again and then dropped the newspaper back on his desk. “Nope, nothing new. Foley is supposed to do the autopsies today, and we’re reviewing the closed-circuit video one frame at a time. Yesterday, we interviewed the judge’s staff but didn’t get anything helpful.”
“Any idea at all who the Jane Doe is?”
“Running her prints, but we haven’t gotten a match yet. And we’re looking at all missing person reports, starting with the tristate area.”
I couldn’t think of any polite way to ask my next question, so I blurted it out. “Was Judge Preston dirty?”
Mike’s eyes widened. “What?”
I shrugged. “Just asking. He got whacked in a very unusual way. Must be a reason.”
He frowned. “I’ve known Judge Preston for over ten years. He was smart, fair, and compassionate.” He hesitated. “Maybe a little too compassionate from time to time.”
“Oh?”
>
“I’ve seen some bad actors walk out of his courtroom because Preston thought the evidence was weak. Case in point, do you remember Del Randall?”
Del Randall was also known as Lucifer because of the Satan tattoo on his forearm. Nicknamed Loose, he was a pimp who trafficked underage girls. I was there when two vigilantes, Shana Neese and John Stillwater, members of a shadowy group called Friends of Lydia, freed four girls, all smuggled into the country illegally and forced into prostitution. Shana and John drove the girls to Hartford for shelter and new identities. Del Randall we left tied up on the dirty floor of the ramshackle house he was using as the girls’ prison.
That had been one scary afternoon. Now and then, I still feel a twinge of pain in my shoulder where I’d gotten thrown into a wall…and recall the cattle prod the pimp used on the girls if they got out of line.
“I remember.”
“I thought the cops in Bridgeport put together a good case against Randall. They found evidence he’d imprisoned individuals inside that house. They found implements of torture. They found personal items left behind after the girls had been spirited away by your friends.”
I detected the hint of snark in his voice and replied, “I happened to be there when two members of FOL freed those girls from a life of sexual slavery.”
“Point taken. The piece you wrote and the photos you ran gave this county a wake-up call. It showed the world that even Fairfield County has a human trafficking problem.” His voice had become conciliatory.
“Thank you.”
Mike leaned forward. “But you were never called as an eyewitness to Randall’s trial because Judge Preston threw the case out, ruling insufficient evidence.”
“Why?”
He pointed toward me. “He said that whatever evidence the prosecution had was the fruit of a poisonous tree. It was gathered as a result of a home invasion. The evidence was tainted. If Del Randall’s lawyer had been of a mind, you and the two members of FOL could have been accused of breaking-and-entering and assault. If the pimp had admitted that there were four girls there, you might have been arrested for kidnapping as well.”
I felt a slow burn. “Four underage girls were being pimped out for sex every night against their will.”
Mike held up his hand. “The judge dropped the case.”
I took a deep breath. “How often did Preston do that?”
He shook his head, thinking. “Once in a blue moon, maybe. He’d toss a case I thought had merit and it would leave me scratching my head. Wasn’t often.”
“So, back to my original question.”
Mike stared at me. “What, do I think he was dirty? If anything, I think someone killed him because he didn’t toss a case. Maybe someone he put away went to prison and recently got out. That’s what we’re looking into. Now, if you get a line on where we can find Merlin Finn…” His voice drifted. Then he asked, “Are you here for the incident reports?” Clearly, he was done discussing the homicides because he had a file folder in his hand.
I nodded and took the folder. “Busy night?”
“A domestic dispute, a missing person report, a couple of DUIs, someone broke into the laundromat on Queen Street, and three overdoses, one of them fatal.”
I frowned. “Seems like there’s been a ton of those lately.”
“The opioid epidemic has hit here hard over the last couple of months. Wish we could figure out where it’s coming from.”
“Anything interesting on the missing person?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not really. Charlie Tomasso, resides at 81 Indigo Drive, thirty-five years old, six foot six, two hundred and seventy pounds, Caucasian, distinguishing marks are a tattoo of a lion on his right shoulder, a scar on his right cheek, and a gold tooth, one of his front left incisors. His wife reported that he came home from work three days ago, they argued, he left, and hasn’t come back.”
“Did she say that this has happened before?”
“Apparently, when he’s pissed off, he goes off on bender. But she’s concerned because this is the longest he’s been gone.”
I tucked the folder with the incident reports into my bag and fished my mittens out of my coat pockets. “Are you the one who talked to Mrs. Preston when she came in to ID her husband?”
He bobbed his head. “She thinks it’s someone who had a grudge against her husband. Or maybe the husband of the woman he’s been having the affair with.”
“What do you think?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
I sighed. “Guess I’d better get to the office. I have a new boss I need to meet.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Sorry, Genie. Is this part of the sale?”
“New owners mean new bosses.”
Mike offered up a small smile. “Let me know if you need me to call down there to tell them what a great journalist you are.”
I smiled back. “Mike.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
I felt a flutter of anxiety as I searched for the words I wanted to say. “Hey, Caroline is flying to Aspen today with her aunt for Christmas vacation. It’s going to be pretty quiet around the house with her gone. How about if I pick up some takeout and you drop by for dinner tonight?”
Did I really just ask that? Damn, my heart is racing.
He looked down at his desk, his eyes blinking, clearly flustered.
My anxiety slowly solidified into the cold fear of rejection. What was I thinking? He’d been the one who had kicked me to the curb when I wouldn’t commit to a relationship.
Oh, yes, and the drinking, let’s not forget about that.
He cleared his throat. “There’s no good way to tell you this.”
Growing dread burrowed its way into my chest. “Tell me what?”
“I’m seeing someone.”
Oh, knife to the heart. “Really, who? Someone I know?” I tried to keep my voice bright, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t pulling it off very well.
“Her name is Vicki Smith. We’ve been seeing each other since Thanksgiving.”
Feeling the complete fool. “Well, how about that? Vicki Smith, the Realtor on the billboards out on Route 1?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
All I knew about her was what she looked like. Vicki Smith’s smiling face was plastered up on the billboard on Connecticut Avenue as you were coming into town. I’d also seen her in a couple of television ads, wearing her dark-blue blazer with the Vicki Smith Realty logo over her right breast. Looking straight into the camera, she purred, “I don’t want to sell you a house. I want to find you a home.” She was petite, had shoulder-length raven-black hair, large, earnest, chocolate-brown eyes, and a lovely smile with the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen. I’ll bet they glowed in the dark.
And she looked like she was at least ten years younger than Mike.
And me.
I stood up, still wearing my coat. I could feel heat spreading through my cheeks, my face flushing with embarrassment. I repeated, “Well, how about that?” I turned and started out the door, then stopped and looked back. “Forgive me for asking, how old is Vicki Smith?”
Mike appeared bemused that I was interested enough to ask. “Don’t know. Early thirties, maybe.”
“She have any kids?”
He shook his head. “She was married once, but no kids.”
I knew that Mike had a fifteen-year-old son, the same age as Caroline. Davy spent most of the time with his mom, Mike’s ex-wife. When Mike and I had been dating, he’d told me that his son hadn’t taken the divorce well. Davy was acting out, having problems with authority figures, his father, in particular. At one point, Mike admitted that he was glad he’d only had the one child.
“Ya might want to be careful, Mike. Vicki Smith’s biological clock is ticking. When they’re that age, they want to have kids. Is that s
omething you really want to do again?”
As I turned to walk out the door, I caught sight of him mulling that over, brows knitted together, eyes to the floor.
Catty?
Sure, why the hell not?
Chapter Six
It was disconcerting to walk into the newsroom and see a stranger in my old office. I stripped off my coat, hung it on the department coat tree, and sat down at my new desk in the middle of the newsroom. Glancing over my desktop monitor, I surreptitiously scoped her out and judged that Lorraine Moretti was in her early thirties.
Is everyone younger than I am?
Since she was seated at what used to be my desk, I couldn’t guess her height. Her brown hair was a chic, short style with bangs swept across her forehead. She had wide brown eyes, distinctive cheekbones, Cupid’s bow lips, and flawless arched eyebrows.
While she pecked at her keyboard and studied the computer monitor, she puckered her lips as if getting ready to kiss the screen. I watched as she pulled up a pair of glasses hanging on a cloth strap around her neck and put them on. They were silver with wide frames, retro—what I’d call old-lady-with-a-cat glasses.
I guess they’re back in style? Were they ever in style?
Setting my Starbucks latte down on my desk, I opened up the computer and checked my emails. In open defiance of the company’s useless spam filter, there were a dozen emails that ranged from “fake” news stories from unreliable sources to blatant phishing attempts to get my personal information. I quickly deleted them and then scanned the messages from Connecticut and New York authorities on the latest scams, changes in legislation, and notable crimes and arrests.
